The Green Fairy
by VioletLolitaPop
Summary: His sisters are worried, he knows this. Yet he can't stop himself from drinking straight into the sweet oblivion of sleep just to see that beautiful vision with such a gorgeous head of blonde hair. .:Human AU : Alcoholism:.


**xxx**

_"Now we reunite and forever be divine."_

**xxx**

At the end of a long street, beyond a row of business and cloistered shops, there's a collection of homes. They are clustered together in a seamlessly large building. Their bricks are dyed a rusted red, worn with age and crumbling mortar. There's a light on in the very top corner, always shining through an open window, where the scent of clean linen and crisp sheets of paper emerges along the sweet sounds of a cello.

**xx**

"We have got to stop meeting like this."

His eyes flutter open; the pale tint of his lashes obscure the clarity of his irises, colored such an intricate shade of blue that looks nearly violet. He shifts slightly, unable to feel the vibrant green blades of grass he lays upon, nor the breeze that ruffles through the leaves of a large tree that looms over and provides them with shade, gazes up at that increasingly familiar sight of gold-like hair framing such a well structured face - strong nose and strong jaw that are lovely in their own respects - but can hold no candle to the pair of cornflower eyes that are radiant enough to not be hidden away by a pair of glasses.

"Why is that?" he asks. "Is it somehow a problem for me to wake up to the glory of your presence?"

Wisps of blonde quiver as he chuckles and sighs, crosses his arms and gives him a mockingly stern stare. "Flattery will get you nowhere."

To this he merely scoffs and says, "Now we both know that with you, that is a lie."

Those blue eyes roll before a small smile takes form. He extends a hand out to him, urges him to take it with the persuasion of a mischievous glint that shines all the brighter as his offer is accepted.

"Follow me," he says. "There's something I wanna show you. I think it'll crack that creative block of yours just swell."

He's lifted to his feet without trouble, the pull practically has him fly up onto his feet like a leaf caught in a draft and it's something that has his eyes widen with delighted surprise seeing as to how the last time such a thing was possible had been before he had grown into the full scale of his height. It's a sensation he thought he would never feel again, and how fitting too, for it to occur when he has just been lamenting days when such a thing was possible. It causes him to smile, and in turn has the other tilt his head in a questioning manner.

"What's so funny?" he asks.

"Nothing, it's nothing," he replies with a slight shake of his head. "What are you going to show me today?"

His smile blooms into a large grin, and his fingers gently wrap around the hand that lies in his palm.

"It's this way," he says and leads him away.

He follows without an ounce of hesitation, never letting go of that hand for a second.

**xx**

"What's he doing now?"

The question, posed by an extremely pale man with pinkish eyes and exceptionally light hair, goes unanswered momentarily. Another man stands next to him, much smaller in stature with long dark hair pulled back and warm brown eyes set proudly on a young looking face that has yet been touched by age, and only gives him an answer after some more time is spared to watch the cellist working in the studio from the doorway, bearing witness to the graceful movement of his bow moving across strings and to the sounds of his new creations of music wafting through and echoes into the empty hall.

"He's composing," he says. "There was a sudden burst of inspiration last night, or at least that's what I understand from what he told me before shutting himself up in here."

"He should have let Roderich in on it. God knows what'll happen if anyone writes music without his input."

"I'm not so sure. It doesn't sound as if he needs Roderich's input, and when he hears what we hear, he may agree. You see, Gilbert, what is done in love is well done, and Ivan looks as if he is in love."

The melody emerging from within the room pauses, coming to a rather sudden halt that calls the attention of them both. What greets them is the sight of their colleague, leaning forward with his large instrument held tightly against his chest in one hand as he scratches away at paper resting on a stand, humming to himself with a small, yet happy smile.

"Y'know, Yao, corny speech aside, this whole thing is still weirding me out," says Gilbert. "But whatever, as long as it doesn't mess with his playing."

"It'll improve it, if anything else."

"Yeah, sure." Gilbert backs away from the door frame, grabs his violin case that he's leaned against the wall before overlooking the scene going on in the room, and begins to make his way further into the building. "I'm gonna go down to the room we use with Roderich to go through my exercises if you wanna join me, or if anyone needs me."

"I'll join you in a few minutes," he tells him. "But I am being serious here, wherever this inspiration is coming from is a good thing for us."

He says it sincerely, which may cause Gilbert to be even more skeptical of the affair, but it's honestly meant, and he hopes whatever causes this state of happiness for his friend will last.

**xx**

His name is Alfred, though Ivan is not quite sure why.

He knows very well that the blonde who only appears in his intoxicated dreams is just that, a product of his imagination. Though try as he might, he cannot for the life of him think of anyone or remember hearing of any person who is identical to his appearance, or even the origin of his name. Even with a vague and searching conversation with his elder sister proved fruitless, and when attempting the same with his younger, he comes away with even less.

So, it's here, on a seaside cliff, properly dressed against the cold that he bothers to question Alfred himself.

"Who are you?" he asks.

Alfred, who has been crouched at the edge to look down at the white foam of incoming waves crash against the jutting rocks in his long coat and matching scarf to Ivan's own, turns his head to look back at him, eventually moving just a bit of his body to make better eye contact for whatever conversation is to come next.

"It's a little late for introductions like that, dontcha think?" he asks in return. "I mean, you didn't even get like then when I first started showing up."

"For some reason, I didn't feel the need to ask."

"And you feel like you need to now?" Alfred asks. He comes to stand slowly, and with his hands clasped behind his back, he approaches Ivan in a rather cautious manner."I'll leave. If you want me to."

"No!" he replies hastily. "No, I.. I wouldn't like that at all."

Alfred beams and claps his hands together, his entire childlike manner warming Ivan's heart. "Good. Now, show me how to do that trick?"

**xx**

He's composing again, though it comes to no surprise to any of them, it's all he seems to be doing nowadays.

"I don't oppose," says Roderich, all while adjusting his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. The stray wisps of his dark hair fall across his face. "I just wish to know where this inspiration is coming from."

"Yao says he's in love," Gilbert replies none too delicately.

"I said he appeared to be in love," Yao corrects. "I don't know if he is for certain. He hasn't told me anything of the sort."

This causes a frown to settle on Roderich's expression. "That could be problematic."

"You think he's gonna go through that phase you did when your chick dumped you?" Gilbert asks, instantly provoking a very disapproving glare from the other man. Though before a sudden argument over tact and common decency can spring between them, Yao cuts in with observations of his own, willing them to see the good of what's happening to their fourth member.

"I don't think there is actually someone else involved in why this is happening," he says. "As far as I can tell, and from what we've talked of, and the small bit of conversation I've had with one of his sisters when I went over for a visit, there doesn't seem to have been anything romantic started with anyone. She said that he's been keeping to his room mostly, playing and little else."

"So, what's he in love with?" Gilbert asks. "Himself?"

"That would be problematic as well," says Roderich, "since we already have one like that."

"Shouldn't say things like that about yourself."

"No matter what this is," Yao calls over them loudly, playing the mediator of a possible second altercation, "Ivan knows what is important. I know he's worked too hard to get where he is now, he won't throw it away for something frivolous."

Roderich turns away from Gilbert, anything he might have said in return to the turned jab is pushed back as he gives Yao his attention. "I'll leave you to watch over him then, if you're so certain."

"I hardly think he needs a sitter."

"It's merely a precaution." He takes another look at the man inside, the one who is righting his posture and trying to find the best way to continue his new piece. He turns away, and addresses the others while fixing his cuffs. "Come along then, both of you grab your instruments. We'll run through a few measures and see if he's finished in here during a break later."

As both Roderich and Gilbert turn to leave, Yao falters back for just a moment. He glimpses back into that room that now has a steady stream of a calming melody that carries a tinge of beauty that is felt rather than simply heard. It's enough to satisfy that odd and apprehensive feeling that has been creeping into chest during the entire talk with the other members of their quartet, and it's with a clear mind that he's able to leave Ivan to his devices for the moment and join the others.

**xx**

Alfred is sitting some ways from him, perched on the sill on a large window jutting outwards and covered with a seat cushion made with a pastel floral cloth. His knees are to his chest, his feet bare, and his arms wrapped around so that he is completely secured away from the world, no chance of intruders creeping in to make a fuss as he watches tiny flakes of snow stick to the glass if not fall down into the streets below.

As he watches, Ivan watches him, or rather makes it a study.

He sits off to the side somewhat, in an old armchair that's red upholstery has faded and matted to a dark pink, it's wooden frame scratched and scraped from years of use, and as he sits, he leans his head against his hand, propped up by his elbow and takes in the curved lines and sharp angles of the blonde. He makes certain to not overlook a single detail.

When it appears that Alfred has has enough of the silence and of being stared at (because in all honesty, how could he possibly not feel the burning gaze set upon him?), he turns towards Ivan, and begins to speak.

"It's snowing," he says, though he does so in a curious tone, one that foregoes any sense of obvious mockery or genuine naivety.

"Yes," Ivan replies. "It is."

"Do you like the snow?" asks Alfred.

It seems as though he's trying to find the reason behind the snowfall, and Ivan hesitates in replying, ponders the question and the several answers he is able to give with different sounding implications before he simply settles on saying, "It's familiar."

Alfred gives him a long look, one that has shift in his seat. It gives him a brief insight into what it's like being on the opposite side of a stare, and has him reevaluate whether or not to continue such a habit even on figments of his own imagination. However, such thoughts are interrupted, as Alfred breaks into a smile and says to him, "I just got an idea."

Ivan rises from his seat and makes for the sill, places himself in front of Alfred and asks for all the details. To his surprise, Alfred shifts away from him and pouts.

"Sometimes I think you only like me for the music you get outta me."

It's merely a jest, but one that he takes personally enough to give a serious answer. Yet before doing so, he reaches forward and encloses one of Alfred's hands with his own, brings it up to his lips, and places the gentlest of kisses on the back of his palm.

"There are many things about you that I like other than the brilliance you inspire," he says against Alfred's skin.

"You mean that?"

"Of course." He lowers his hand but keeps his hold. "There must be some reason why I want you nearby even when you're doing nothing productive."

Alfred wretches his hand away and uses it to slap at Ivan's shoulder in a somewhat playful manner.

"One day I'm going to leave and never come back," he says. "Just to teach you a lesson."

To this Ivan only grins. "Somehow, I doubt that."

His reply has Alfred wear a grin of his own. "Yeah," he sighs. "I do too... So, are you gonna shut up so I can share my idea?"

"You are the one that stopped yourself from doing so."

"Shut up."

**xx**

"This is monumental. With a financier we'll be able to afford the best for ourselves and not worry about our own profits. We'll be able to apply to venues once closed to us for fiscal reason, move ever upward in this business, and finally be recognized."

The four of them gather in Roderich's home, a small abode that is furnished well enough and kept precise and in order. In each hand is a tall glass of champagne, and though Gilbert had initially wrinkled his nose at the bubbly liquid, even he's taken one for himself at the news their colleague presents them.

"It's a combination of all of our hard work," he continues. "Our dedication, and our talent. And of course, the new music from our enthusiastic cellist."

He raises his glass in Ivan's direction, as does Yao, and even though Gilbert does not play along with the theatrics and skips ahead to drinking from his glass, Ivan flushes all the same from a mixture of embarrassment and pride.

"Whatever it is you do to move the people as they do," Roderich says to him, "please, continue to do so."

"I will do my best," he promises and shares a shy smile.

His eyes dart to Yao, and on seeing the other's nod in agreement, his smile widens and together they drink.

**xx**

"You're getting tired."

He grunts in disagreement, with closed eyes. They lay next to each other, side by side on top of white sheets that are beginning to lose their luster and tinged yellow in the dim light of a dying light bulb screwed into the only lamp planted on the night stand next to them. He rests on his back, head buried into a pillow and feet tangled in a blanket left forgotten while Alfred faces towards him on his side, body pressed against, giving off a false sensation of warmth.

"I'm fine," he says, and there's a vain attempt of hiding the weariness of his tone. "I am able to stay for a little longer."

Alfred presses further against him, molds right into the empty space between them until it is non-existent and places a hand over one of Ivan's, using his thumb to caress his skin with light strokes.

"It's okay," he says. "You can go to sleep, I'll be here when you wake up."

The corners of Ivan's mouth flicker upward, if only for a moment.

"I swear," he continues. "You have to trust me on that."

A breath or two, and Ivan finally says, "I suppose.. I will."

Alfred's smile goes unnoticed, but his words ring out clear. "Go to sleep, Ivan. I'll be here when you wake up."

Despite wanting to prolong the inevitable, Ivan does go to sleep, or rather he truly does awaken.

His eyes open wide, and he ignores the instinct to shut them once more at the sting of bright sunlight filtering through his window in favor of looking next to him. What he finds is a bed occupied only by himself, the spot that he so wanted another to be is left bare and cold, no trace of a presence left.

He sits up suddenly, caught in an overwhelming sense of determination and throws his feet over the side of his bed, still in the clothing her wore the previous day. He grabs at a half-empty bottle of alcohol sitting on his night stand before racing for his small desk on the opposite side of the room, rummages through the drawers with an urgency he's never shown before until he comes across a stack of blank music sheets.

He pours himself a drink and sets to work.

**xx**

His sisters are worried, he knows this.

Yet he can't stop himself from drinking straight into the sweet oblivion of sleep just to see that beautiful vision with such a gorgeous head of blonde hair.

He wants to blame the abundance of music that comes to mind when seeing him, but he knows that is not the reason.

**xx**

It's the first time, and he swears it's the last.

Yao pulls him aside, a look of disgust washes over his face, so noticeable that not even Ivan can deny it in his state. Which is to say, completely and utterly worse for wear. Not only are his clothes wrinkled and stained, his face is greasy, as his hair, in a tangled mess of flyaway strands and clumped oil slicks, and there's a heavy stench of vodka surrounding him.

"What is wrong with you?" he snaps. "How can you possibly come here looking like this?"

"I-I was late," he tries to explain. "I was working very late last night, almost until dawn, and I meant to set an alarm to wake myself up earlier to present myself and be ready, but I had forgotten, and I was going to be late for this-"

"It would have been better had you not shown up at all!"

The sharp cut of Yao's interruption has him flinch and cast his eyes downwards. He keeps his hands wringing in front of him, keeping them busy instead of pressing against his temples where a throbbing headache is causing an tremendous amount of discomfort. Perhaps it's the shame filled posture, or the abashed aura he emanates but the anger drains away from Yao and leaves him sighing heavily.

"What could you possibly have to work on that possessed you to drink like this?" Yao asks, his calm softer and friendly once more. "Ivan, please, what is going on?"

"It's nothing," he replies in a rush. "It was a mistake. It was just a mistake."

He swears it again and again, making them all believe him with sheer persistence, that this spectacle is an accident entirely of his own doing, he'll take full responsibility. Though still upset, and worried in Yao's case, they'll take his word, and accept his fault with the full belief that this instance will be the only slip he makes.

It isn't.

**xx**

Alfred's kisses are sweeter than any wine he's tasted. They have a passion to them that burns fiercer than any vodka he keeps. They're more compelling than any brand of alcohol could ever achieve, and he hates how the moment he awakens to the bitter harshness of reality, he cannot recall them. The press of lips, and wrapped arms, and shared breaths are lost to him, and gives him ample reason enough to seek them out once more.

What was once a celebratory drink after a performance becomes a night of blissful inebriation.

A drink after supper is now a full bottle.

One.. that quickly appears to always be nearby.

Even when no occasion is called.

It's addicting, and dangerous, and he doesn't care.

**xx**

"It seems like I'm seeing you more and more these days."

Alfred's voice rings clear in the still of their surroundings, the same ever looming tree that provides them shade from a bright yellow sun that shines endlessly against a cloudless sky. There is no wind, or sound of birds, or anything else for that matter. His words, while sounding nonchalant in their own right, strikes a certain chord in Ivan.

"Would you rather it be different?" he asks, rather defensively.

Instead of responding quickly to the question, Alfred gives him a long look, one that is searching and makes him squirm. "You don't have to perform or anything tomorrow?"

"I have everything set up so that would not be a problem."

Again, that long look returns and instead of merely making him uncomfortable, it begins to annoy him.

"Why do you keep looking at me like that?" he demands. "Do you want me to stay away?"

Alfred's face falters. He blinks rapidly in surprise, as though he never once thought that Ivan would ever ask such a thing from him. "I'm just a little worried," he says. "That's all."

His admission has him turn his eyes away, sigh heavily and look upwards into the abundance of leaves that shield everything away from them. It takes a minute or two, but when he looks back at Alfred, he smiles and leans forward to kiss him.

"Don't be," he tells him with a quick peck. "Everything will be fine."

**xx**

"We've allowed this behavior to go on for far too long."

"He's starting to screw up on stage, this is gonna scew us all over."

"At this rate we'll lose our funding, our credibility will be put into jeopardy, everything we've worked for up to this point."

"It was bad enough when he'd show up fucking hung over, but now it's like he just doesn't give a damn."

Both Roderich and Gilbert continue to list the faults Ivan has recently acquired and the repercussions they cause, while all Yao can do is sit idly by in one of Roderich's ornate wing chairs, unable to deny anything they may say. He's done his best to interfere in the changes of his friend, and unable to do so, it's raised a call for action against his reckless behavior and abandonment to his work.

"If we call together an intervention," he tries to say, "if we raise our concerns to him all at once, we may be able to stop this from becoming worse-"

"It's already at the worst," Gilbert interrupts. "There is literally nowhere left for him to sink down to."

Yao falters, tries to grasp at a reason to keep Ivan on board and ultimately settles for bringing up the music he's been producing, but that to is shot down by Gilbert himself.

"What good is the music if he isn't able to hold his damn instrument? Our careers are on the line here, Yao!"

Still, he keeps his hands fisted in his lap, not wanting to budge on the matter. The turning point for his change in decision comes when Gilbert leans in close, makes certain that he is looking dead into his the other man's eyes and in a rather harsh manner, asks, "Yao, how old are you?"

It's a cruel reminder to the many years he's spent struggling for his art, and it hits at this heart more than it should, but he hangs his head with a defeated sigh and nods.

"Let me tell him at least," he says. "The both of you, go on and find another cellist, and I'll tell him. He'll be less prone to act out, I think... That is, if he isn't already drinking."

**xx**

The fingers running through his hair are a comfort to him, but only just so much.

Ivan buries his face into the crook of Alfred's neck, and the other holds him tight, murmurs sweet and encouraging words into his ear to ease the sting of being dropped from his quartet due to his "_increasingly irresponsible behavior_", as Yao had said to him only hours earlier. He doesn't cry, though when he pulls away from Alfred to find any form of love or affection in the other's eyes, they are rimmed red and have a very glazed look to them.

"You'll stay with me, won't you?" he asks, and Alfred does not answer. He brushes back some hair from his face, cups his chin, and gives him a small smile. He pulls Ivan back into a close hold, and keeps him there.

There's something particularly special about muses. They flitter in and out of lives, bringing the life of new and wondrous creations, though rarely staying put to see it through, rather leaving it to the one they've chosen to bestow their gifts before running off. It's something familiar to all those who live artistically, and yet having full knowledge by having been touched by one or two, Ivan has never questioned Alfred's continuous presence. Has never thought to ponder what makes him an exception.

And Alfred, who knows very well the workings of his own kind realizes the implications this has and the consequences that are very much taking into effect. It matters not what beauty he may spark, there is now a lack of motivation to breathe life into it, to make it an tangible entity of intangibility, and without as much, his existence becomes wasted and spent.

He only hopes they'll both fade away simultaneously. It'll be much cleaner in that case.

**xx**

At the end of a long street, beyond a row of business and cloistered shops, there's a collection of homes. They are clustered together in a seamlessly large building. Their bricks are dyed a rusted red, worn with age and crumbling mortar. There's a light on in the very top corner, that is beginning to dim through an open window, where the scent of alcohol and liquor emerges along the sounds of strings breaking.

**xxx**

Disclaimer: 'Cause without you, nothing is the same.

-Written for alfredfjonesversustheworld on tumblr as part of the RusAme Secret Santa exchange.

-Weell... stay shiny everyone, link to a soundtrack is on the profile, I'm gonna go hide under a rock now. :D


End file.
